‘Is it the bishop? Has he returned from exile?’ Bishop Gamelin, the government’s choice for Bishop of St Andrews, had fled abroad two years before.
He shook his head. ‘Our business is with the archdeacon.’
III
It was cold and stormy. The Castle of St Andrews, on its bleak promontory, rose dark in the early twilight. Below it, the sea crashed on the fingers of rock which stretched into it, crawling back in an uneasy lace of foam, then hurling itself again against the low hollow cliffs below the outer castle wall. Inside, the high stone created an oasis of quiet shelter out of the wind.
The archdeacon met them in the gatehouse. He bowed as Malcolm greeted him. ‘All is ready, my lord.’
‘Is it to be in the cathedral?’
‘Aye, my lord, all is arranged.’ He gave Eleyne a tight smile. ‘Would you like to rest first, my lady, after your long ride?’
‘Thank you, archdeacon, I shall rest later. First I want to know what is happening.’ Eleyne turned to her husband. ‘I think it is time you told me why we are here.’ She surveyed his face, her eyes steady.
The archdeacon shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Malcolm frowned. ‘We are to be married.’
‘Married?’ Eleyne was stunned, too astonished even to speak.
‘It appears I was misinformed when I was told originally that your husband had died,’ he went on gruffly. ‘Now I have absolute proof of his death. This marriage is to seal the bond between us without any possibility of doubt.’
Eleyne was silent for a moment. ‘When did he die?’ she asked at last. There was no sadness, only a cold curiosity and relief.
‘I believe he died in London,’ Malcolm replied. Cautiously he glanced at her face.
She met his gaze. ‘How did he die?’
‘Of a fever I understand, but whatever the reason, he is dead now without a doubt. We have come here to be absolved of any sin in our bigamous union, to marry again, to confirm that all is legal beyond question and to confirm that Colban is my legitimate heir. We ride to Edinburgh tomorrow, where I shall have a private audience with the king. He has agreed to sign a document to confirm the church’s blessing on the house of Fife and I shall have it sealed with the great seal as confirmation of Colban’s legitimacy.’
‘I see.’ Eleyne’s voice was bleak. ‘So, for the last four years I have been your whore.’
‘No, my lady, no.’ The archdeacon stepped forward. ‘You married in good faith in the belief you were a widow. This must be the substance of your confession. God and Our Blessed Lady will look kindly on your sin. You will be absolved.’
‘By you?’ She drew herself up and turned to Malcolm. ‘You kidnapped me, you raped me and you forced me into marriage. But it is my sin we come here to absolve.’ Her voice was heavy. ‘And I suppose mine will be the penance as well.’
The two men glanced at each other. ‘Lord Fife was not already married, my lady,’ the archdeacon said uncomfortably.
‘No.’ Eleyne resisted the urge to put her hand protectively over the gentle swelling of her stomach.
‘Your penance will not be arduous, my lady,’ the archdeacon went on, ‘Lord Fife has assured me of your innocence and the chaste nature of your love.’ He looked at the ground.
‘Let’s get on with it!’ Malcolm was growing restless. ‘I want it done as soon as possible.’ He turned to the door.
The storm was increasing. In the great cathedral the candles flickered and streamed, spattering wax across the floor tiles as they let themselves in by the passdoor set into the huge oak doors at the west end. The archdeacon led the way to a side chapel, the sound of his sandals lost in the echoes as the monks in the choir sang vespers.
Eleyne stood, the rain dripping off her cloak, gazing at the altar as more candles were lit. The chapel was dedicated to St Margaret. Seven years before Scotland’s blessed queen had been elevated at last to full sainthood and chapels dedicated to her all over the country.
For Colban’s sake, and for the sake of her unborn child, she would go through with this ceremony; she would confess to a sin which was none of her making; she would marry Malcolm to secure their legitimacy and she would if necessary go down on her knees before her godson and beg his connivance for Colban’s sake.
As she knelt before the archdeacon and received his gabbled absolution and accepted with bowed head the penance he imposed, she felt no awe and no relief. The storm that crashed over their heads and threw the sea against the rocks showed the displeasure of the gods; no meek Virgin, no saintly queen, could absolve fate for depriving her of her king, the man she loved. Had Robert de Quincy died nine years before she could have been Alexander’s queen.
IV
June 1257
Macduff, Eleyne’s second son by the Earl of Fife, was born on a soft, balmy day full of the sweetness of flowers. She gazed at the child in her arms and smiled at this small scrap, destined, if Adam was to be believed, for a career as a soldier and a glorious death in battle in the fullness of his years. She pulled open the neck of her shift and put the small questing mouth to her breast, feeling at once the eager tug which brought the strange cramps to her womb. The wetnurse had been ready these last two weeks, with her own child at her heavy breast. She frowned; if the countess decided to feed the baby herself, she would not be paid and her other children would starve.
Adam would tell her no more about Macduff ’s future, and about Colban he had spoken little. As he cast the boy’s horoscope, he saw no long life or happiness. He saw a line blighted and doomed; he saw storms and lightning and blood. Closing his books and setting aside his charts and tables, he concentrated instead on Eleyne. It was her future which fascinated him. As Einion had done before him, he saw the promise of a destiny far beyond the small kingdom of Fife.
He taught her all he knew. She was quick to understand the science of astrology; she was adept at divination; she already knew more than he of herbs and their powers. But there were areas where she would not go. One of them was the fire.
‘But it’s your natural element, my lady. It’s where the pictures come,’ he argued. ‘I can show you how to see the future in water, or in the flights of birds, or in your dreams, but in the fire you will see your destiny written.’ She was adamant however. She did not feel able to face the fire. She shielded her dreams from him deliberately. He could read nothing of them. Once or twice he had tried to probe, delicately trying to read her soul, but she had flinched as though he had touched raw flesh and he drew back.
She was still not sure whether they were dreams or whether Alexander came to her in reality. Sometimes he came as she lay in bed beside her sleeping husband, but more often it was when she slept alone, as the beam of moonlight crept across the floor and slid between the curtains of the bed, or the early dawn light, cold and grey as the sea, touched her face. It was then she felt his lips on hers, his hands on her breasts and, lying sleepy and acquiescent, she would feel her thighs part at his command.
V
DUNFERMLINE September 1257
King Alexander III had had enough of politics for that morning. The touchy, raw-tempered lords of his court were like so much kindling on a fire-swept moor: one spark and they would be at one another’s throats again. But agreement was close between the opposing parties in the government at last, and Lord Menteith and Lord Mar, for one faction, stood on one side of him, with Durward on his other side, as the Earl of Fife led his wife up the hall.
Alex greeted Eleyne with alacrity. ‘Aunt Eleyne, I want you to see my new horse.’ He grinned at her conspiratorially. ‘You know more about horses than any of my advisers.’
Eleyne laughed. ‘I am flattered you should think so, sire.’
‘Lady Fife.’ Queen Margaret had put her hand on her husband’s arm as she leaned forward. A pretty, bubbly, good-natured girl, she was still a child whilst her husband was at last becoming a man, and horses bored her except as a means of transport. ‘We shall all visit the stables presently, no doubt, but firs
t you must meet my latest adoring squire.’ Giggling, she put her hand out to the young man who had been sitting on the dais at her feet. ‘Donald, this is Lady Fife.’
The Earl of Mar’s son was tall, dark-haired like his father, and astonishingly handsome, Eleyne noticed with unconscious approval as with the shy grace of a young mountain stag he scrambled to his feet and bowed over her hand.
‘If you capture his heart, Aunt Eleyne, he will write you a poem.’ The king chuckled good-naturedly. ‘He bombards my wife with them.’
With a glance at the glowering face of the Earl of Mar at the king’s shoulder, Eleyne smiled at the young man. He was at least a year or two older than the king, and she could see he was the focus of much covert interest on the part of the queen’s ladies.
‘Then I shall have to set out to capture his heart,’ she said at once. ‘I love poems, and it is many years since anyone wrote one for me.’
Donald glanced at her shyly: ‘My heart is pledged to the queen, my lady,’ he said with quiet dignity, ‘but if she permits it, I shall write you the most beautiful poem in the world.’
Eleyne’s attention was caught. There was a strength in his voice and a calm confidence in his words which spoke of maturity far beyond his years.
Margaret giggled. ‘Do it, Donald, I beg you. You have my permission to dedicate your next hundred poems to Lady Fife. I already have far too many.’ She rose, bustling cheerfully, and did not notice the crestfallen look in the young man’s eyes. ‘Come on, let’s go to the stables. I’m bored with so much talk.’
As they turned to follow King Alexander from the dais, Lord Mar stepped forward. He knew his son was the object of much admiration among the ladies of the court and he had encouraged his friendship with the young king and queen and watched it flourish with a benevolent eye, but as he saw Donald raise Eleyne’s hand to his lips he scowled. He drew his son to one side as the party made its way towards the stables.
‘Keep away from Eleyne of Fife, my boy,’ he murmured. ‘She causes nothing but trouble wherever she goes.’
‘I only offered to write her a poem, father. I serve the queen, you know that.’
William of Mar looked heavenwards, and Lord Buchan, next to him, grinned sympathetically. The boy was obsessed with the notion of courtly love. Let be. A few months in the cold northern mountains with a sword in his hand and the icy highland rain pouring down his neck would soon cure that.
VI
Eleyne was sitting in the window of the chamber at Dunfermline, staring south across the silver Forth. While Malcolm was involved in yet another round of talks with Menteith, Mar and Durward, becoming more angry and frustrated daily, she was expected to sit with the queen and the other ladies, but this time she had pleaded a headache. She was missing her children. Colban at three and a half an adorable puppy of a child, and little Macduff, only three months old and now in the care of his wetnurse and of Rhonwen, had remained at Falkland. Besides, since Queen Marie and her new French husband had joined the court the atmosphere had chilled rapidly. The carefree giggling coterie had changed into a solemn, hostile group whose eyes seemed to watch her whenever she entered the queen’s presence.
The castle was quiet, their chamber deserted. The servants were elsewhere and she had sent her own ladies down to the hall. For the first time in a long while she was completely alone.
She looked behind her into the silent room and felt a sudden catch in her throat. He was here: Alexander, her Alexander. She always felt closer to him at Dunfermline than anywhere else, but he had never come to her here. Not like this. She felt a breath on her cheek, the slightest brush against her breast and a whisper in the shadows. Obediently she rose and walked towards the bed, sleepily, languid with the autumn heat, already opening the front of her gown.
The quiet knock seemed part of her daydream, no more. She glanced lazily across the room and smiled.
The knock came a second time, louder. As suddenly as it had come, the presence in the room had gone. She was once more alone. Hastily adjusting her gown, she called to come in.
The door opened and Donald of Mar peered round it.
‘My Lady Eleyne? They told me you weren’t well. The queen said I should bring you my poem …’ He blushed, still holding the ring of the door handle.
Eleyne’s irritation vanished. With a smile, she beckoned him in. Alexander – her own tiny dead Alexander – would be this young man’s age now if he had lived. ‘As you see, I am quite alone and very bored. I should love to hear your poem, sir.’ Her ghostly visitor was forgotten. She did not feel the anguish in the room, or sense the chill as she gestured Donald towards a stool. It did not occur to her to call for a chaperone.
He came into the chamber and closed the door with care. The roll of parchment was tucked into his girdle, but although he brought it out he did not need to read it. He had his poem by heart.
Eleyne listened. His voice was deep and musical and the words had power and beauty. She listened, amused and touched, unaware that her near encounter with her phantom lover had left her eyes huge and lustrous and brought a colour and softness to her skin which reminded Donald of the innermost part of the delicate petal of sweet eglantine.
After he finished there was a long silence. The words had been in places stylised and clumsy, but running through them was a note of sensuousness which made her catch her breath. ‘You are a true poet, Donald,’ she said at last. ‘Such men are greatly honoured in my country.’
He smiled gravely. ‘As they are in Scotland, Lady Eleyne, though not if they are the eldest son of an earl.’ The bitterness in his voice did not suit his handsome face and clear grey eyes.
‘Your father does not like having a poet for a son?’ she asked, surprised.
‘It’s not that. Squires are supposed to write poetry and play court to their lady. Only – ’
‘Only they should not be so good at it, perhaps,’ she prompted.
He laughed, half embarrassed, half pleased. ‘I don’t enjoy the lists or the quintain. You’ll think me a girl for that.’ He went on shyly: ‘You ride better than most men, my lady.’
‘I’ve never ridden in a tournament though,’ she teased. ‘I don’t think I should acquit myself well there. Please, recite another poem.’
‘Really?’ He tried to hide his eagerness.
‘Really,’ she insisted.
He came often after that. New poems in her honour followed hard upon one another’s heels and then, shyly presented, gifts. A rose; a ribbon; a ring of gold and sea pearls.
Malcolm roared with laughter. ‘The pup is besotted! Have a care, my dear, or the queen will be jealous. He has stopped writing for her, you know! In fact he barely looks at her now.’
Ridiculously, Eleyne felt herself blushing. Donald was no pup. Youthful though he might be, he was a man and she was half shocked, half intrigued by her reaction to him. His attraction was tangible and the more she saw of him, the harder she found it to resist him.
‘The boy is a poet,’ she said defensively. ‘He would recite poems to anyone who listens and the queen is too busy.’
‘And you are not.’
They looked at each other in silence: the usual gulf had opened between them. Malcolm looked away first. ‘I am returning to Falkland when the court moves to Stirling,’ he said abruptly. ‘There is business which requires my attention. The king and queen have asked that you remain with them; no doubt they want you to write to Prince Llywelyn or speak to his ambassador, who I understand is on his way, so I shall leave you to your poet.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Be gentle with him, my dear. Remember, he is only a boy.’
He was still laughing as he vaulted on to his horse and rode away.
VII
In the great hall at Stirling Donald sought her out. As usual, there was a group around the young king, and the Earl of Mar was amongst them. Eleyne saw him look across at his son and then at her; his expression was thoughtful.
‘Your husband has not come to Stirling?’ Donald�
�s voice was painfully eager; he did not like Malcolm’s teasing.
Eleyne shook her head.
‘And you are not going to follow him?’ Suddenly the reason for the anxiety in the young man’s eyes was apparent.
Impulsively Eleyne laid her hand on Donald’s sleeve. ‘No, I am staying here, I don’t want to be parted from my poet.’ She was aware suddenly that she spoke the truth; she was becoming dangerously fond of this young man. He represented so much that her soul craved: poetry; chivalry; charm. He was young, romantic. What woman could resist such a combination after years with Robert and then with Malcolm? ‘I shall command that you attend me faithfully and wait on my every whim.’ Her voice took on a note of mock sternness. ‘When we go tomorrow with the king and queen for our banquet in the forest, I shall want you to be my squire.’
Donald’s face cleared. He bowed low, with a little flourish of his hand. ‘I am yours to command, lady.’
The picnic had been arranged as a distraction for the king and queen, a relief from the monotony of grey council meetings and the quarrels of the leading members of the court. A clearing had been chosen in the king’s park and spread with cloths, and from dawn baskets of food and wine had been carried out for the feast. Cooking fires had been lit hours before. Musicians, tumblers, troubadours and minstrels were clustered beneath the trees waiting for the guests to appear in all their finery.
It was a hot, airless day. The trees still threw a heavy shade across the grass, though a carpet of crisp golden leaves lay across the parched sward, and the men and women who trooped out of the castle sought it eagerly, seating themselves around the food-laden cloths. The air was loud with talk and laughter and soon the cheerful notes of pipe and drum, harp and fiddle echoed beneath the trees.
Eleyne watched Donald, aware that several other wistful pairs of eyes were fixed on the handsome son of the Earl of Mar. She was amused as the young man piled food on to her manchet, choosing from each great trencher what he considered the most succulent portions. He was wearing a new gown of dark green fabric tied with a simple leather girdle and he had brushed his hair until it shone. His beard was scant, but carefully trimmed, and in the scrip at his belt she guessed there would be another gift. She knew that she should discourage him. She knew that she was playing with fire, but she could not stop herself.
Child of the Phoenix Page 69